


Of Smiles and Broken Things

by weareallmadeofstardust



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Jack and Janet Drake's A+ Parenting, My first fic, Tim needs a hug, Tiny Tim - Freeform, bruce tries to adopt every child he sees, implied child neglect, ok now i get why people always write "how do i tag"
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-23
Updated: 2019-02-23
Packaged: 2019-11-04 13:39:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17899127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weareallmadeofstardust/pseuds/weareallmadeofstardust
Summary: Tim's first gala isn't going as well as he had hoped, but at least the host is nice.





	Of Smiles and Broken Things

Tim couldn’t help drumming his fingers against the car door as they drove, watching the trees impatiently through the window. After the glare his father sent him, though, he switched to fidgeting with the edges of his suit instead.

His father’s disapproval was forgotten a moment later, though, when they went around a bend and Wayne Manor came into view. It loomed over them, tall and imposing and elaborate, with warm yellow light spilling from the open doors, casting long shadows behind the couple entering. Tim decided that all the begging had been worth it, if he got to come here.

The car rolled to a stop, and the Drake family got out. Tim itched to run up to the house, but his parents stopped him. As well as his manners.

“Now, Timothy,” Janet said. “Do you understand what you are to do here?”

“Yes, mother,” Tim replied, but she continued, talking over him.

“You are not to bother any of the guests. You are not to damage anything or embarrass your father and I. This is an important chance for your father and I to advance Drake Industries. We don’t need you getting underfoot.” Janet looked down at him severely, lips set in a firm line. “Behave only as your name demands. You are a Drake, and I expect you to act like one. If, at the end of the night, you have done as we expect, then we will consider allowing this… indulgence to continue.”

“Yes, mother,” Tim said again, clasping his hands tightly. The manor in front of them was big, bigger than his own, the many windows glittering with light that spilled onto the lawn. Janet inspected him carefully for a moment, then nodded briskly and began to walk towards the doors, head high and posture regal.

Tim scrambled to keep up with her, ducking his head at the disapproving glare Jack sent his way, and tried to match her steps. He still ended up having to take three for every one of hers, trying not to trip on the stone path.

Wayne Manor was, in one word, big. No, more than big. Massive, Tim decided. At the moment, it was filled with people, all wearing fancy clothes like the Drakes were. Swallowing back his sudden nervousness, he grabbed a fistful of his mother’s skirts in his hand, trying not to become separated from her.

It seemed like more people in one place than he’d ever seen in his life. Well, that wasn’t strictly true, Tim mentally corrected. The most adults in one place. He had gone over the guest list the night before, memorizing as many names and faces as possible so that he could make his parents proud of him, but that wasn’t very helpful when he had to crane his neck to see their faces. Or much higher than their waists.

He felt his mother stumble slightly next to him, cursing under her breath. She paused and turned to face him. “Timothy, stop clinging to me like that, you’re going to trip me. I have things to do. Go and occupy yourself.” With that, she pried his hand off of her dress and turned away, face immediately smoothing over into a smile.

A fake smile, though. One of her “I’m annoyed but trying not to show it” smiles. A business smile.

Tim stood there for a moment, gripping the ends of his sleeves tightly. He considered lingering by his parents before he reconsidered. She told him to go away. He should go away.

But where would he go? He didn’t know anyone here, and there wasn’t much to do at galas other than talk to people. And if he talked to people, then he would probably mess up somehow, and then his parents would never let him come to another gala. So, no talking to people.

After a few moments’ contemplation, he decided that it would probably be best to go find someplace to sit. Preferably quieter than the ballroom. He took one last hesitant glance at his mother, talking to a woman he didn’t know, before he walked away, ducking and weaving between partygoers.

Tim realized very quickly that he had no idea where he was going. The room was so big and crowded that he got hopelessly turned around, surrounded by the rustle of fabric and low murmur of conversation, stranded in a sea of strangers.

He took a deep breath and caught his lower lip between his teeth, nibbling at it idly. It wouldn’t do to keep standing here, no matter how lost and alone he was, so he picked a direction and started to walk.

Somehow, he ended up in a small hallway off the ballroom. To his surprise, there was a little window seat there, and a table with a blue and white vase. He sat down and took a deep breath, staring out the window. The lawn was lit faintly by the house’s light, the grass shadowed and near-black in the twilight, the trees he could see in the distance little more than black wraiths in the night.

It was quiet here, the noise of people muffled by distance. Tim felt like he could breathe again here, so he pulled his knees up to his chest and watched as the sky continued to darken.

After a while, he turned his attention to the vase on the table. It was very pretty, dark blue with swirls like the sky and edged with white dotting, glossy and smooth. It was sort of like his mother’s pretty, he reflected. Untouchable. Unreachable. He counted the dots silently, idly wondering if his parents were missing him, then deciding they probably weren’t. They had better things to do, after all. This gala was important. Tim was just tagging along.

Still, what if they were? He should probably be where they could find him if he was needed. This corridor wasn’t very obvious. And maybe they were getting ready to leave and he needed to make sure they didn’t forget him. Yes, he decided, he should go to them.

Tim nodded to himself and tried to stand, wiggling his way over to the edge of the window seat that was very clearly built for a full-grown adult. He tried to hop down, but he lost his balance and yelped, throwing his hands out to catch himself.

He managed to get to the ground without injury, but one hand smacked against the vase on the table, sending it crashing to the floor. Tim froze, breath catching in his throat.

The vase lay broken on the floor, bits of ceramic all over the spotless tile. He swallowed back the panic in his throat before he could start to cry and tried to focus on keeping his breathing steady, taking deep breaths like the teacher had told them last week.

His parents were going to be so angry. He had gone and gotten lost and then broke Bruce Wayne’s vase.

Oh, no. Bruce Wayne. He was going to be mad, too. Tim had come into his house and broken his things and it occurred to him that he didn’t even want to think about how expensive the now-broken vase must be. He wrapped his arms around his ribs, trying to keep calm.

Okay. Step one. He should clean this up- it’s only polite.

He hurried forwards and grabbed one of the biggest pieces, then dropped it with a yelp. That was sharp!

He inspected his hand, blinking back tears at the pain. Blood was welling up from his fingers and dripping onto the tile floor. No, no, no. He couldn’t get the floor dirty. He couldn’t. And he couldn’t get his suit dirty, either, because the housekeeper would tell his parents and then they’d be angry. He clutched at his fingers with his free hand, eyes watering at the pain.

“What’s going on here?”

Tim couldn’t stifle the small scream of surprise when he heard the man’s voice. He whirled around, hiding his bloody hand behind his back, and looked up.

Dark hair, blue eyes, fancy suit. He recognized him. Bruce Wayne.

His brain caught up a moment later. Bruce Wayne. Whose vase he had just broken.

“I’m so so so so sorry,” he stammered, looking down at the ground, “I didn’t mean to break it, I really didn’t, I’m so sorry-”

“Hey, calm down,” Mr. Wayne soothed, crouching down so that he was about eye level with Tim. “It’s not a big deal. Let’s just clean this up, yeah?”

“Is it very expensive?” he asked anxiously, biting gently at his lower lip.

Mr. Wayne laughed, low and warm. “This thing? No, it’s pretty cheap, actually. Alfred and I put away all of the expensive things after I took in my ward, Dick- he’s an acrobat.”

“I remember,” Tim said, nodding vigorously. “I’m still sorry. Here, I’ll clean it up, you don’t have to-”

He reached forwards, but Mr. Wayne caught his wrist before he could. His hands were warm, Tim noticed with irrational surprise.

“Your hands are bleeding,” he said, a note of concern in his voice. He carefully stepped around the shards of vase and pulled a crisp white handkerchief out of his pocket, gently wiping away the blood. Tim’s cheeks flushed when he realized that the fabric was stained dark red now, marring the clean whiteness.

“Sorry,” he muttered, looking down at his shoes.

“It’s fine, chum,” Mr. Wayne assured him. “What’s your name?”

“Timothy Drake,” he said, trying not to wince as the handkerchief swiped over his cuts.

“Jack and Janet’s boy,” Mr. Wayne said, nodding. “How old are you now? Five?”

“Six,” Tim murmured. Mr. Wayne nodded wisely.

“Is this your first gala, Tim?”

Tim nodded. The cuts were stinging less, now, with the handkerchief wrapped securely around his fingers.

“I attended my first gala when I was seven,” Mr. Wayne said conversationally. “I was so nervous, I threw up.”

“Really?” Tim asked. He couldn’t seem to imagine the man as a child, much less one anything less than composed. Of course he knew that his parents were killed when he was eight, everyone knew that, and logically everyone was a kid once, but when he tried to picture it he came up blank.

“Really,” Mr. Wayne confirmed. “I spent the first half an hour eating as many of the little cakes as I could, which turned out to not be the best idea looking back.”

Tim finally looked up to meet his gaze. Mr. Wayne was smiling at him, wide and warm and gentle. Sincere. It wasn’t like his mother’s smiles, or like the ditzy airheaded ones he always saw on Mr. Wayne’s face during interviews. It was a real smile, even if his blue eyes had shadows.

There was more to Bruce Wayne than met the eye.

The man pulled the cloth away from Tim’s hands and peered closely at them before nodding to himself and pulling a handful of bandaids out of his pocket.

“We just need to get these covered up and then you’ll be good to go,” he explained, peeling away the backing and pressing the first bandage against Tim’s skin. They weren’t tan like he had been expecting. Instead, they were bright blue, complete with Superman logo.

Tim glanced up at Mr. Wayne inquisitively, who was grimacing like using the bandages physically pained him. Noticing the boy watching him, he explained in a voice tinged with irritation, “Dick bought them. Even though I said no.”

“Do you not like Superman?” Tim asked curiously.

“Hrm,” was the only answer he was given. Despite himself, Tim giggled.

“Batman and Robin are cooler,” Tim said firmly.

“Much cooler,” Mr. Wayne agreed solemnly.

He stuck the last brightly-colored bandage to Tim’s fingers and sat back, satisfied. “There. Now we just need to clean this up.”

He pulled out another handkerchief (Tim wondered why he carried two) and used it to shield his fingers as he swept up the shards of ceramic into a little pile.

“I’ve never found galas to be much fun,” Mr. Wayne remarked as he carefully picked up one of the bigger pieces. “I think the whole puking incident soured me on them, honestly.”

“They’re more fun than sitting in that big house alone all the time,” Tim mumbled. Mr. Wayne’s handkerchief stilled.

“Are your parents gone very much, Tim?”

He shrugged. “They like archaeology, so they’re away about half the time. The housekeeper comes over every evening to make me dinner though, and they write. They’re busy, that’s all.”

He didn’t tell him about the nights he spent sitting up on his roof, craning to see the little section of Wayne Manor he could see through the trees. He didn’t tell him about how often he wished that Mr. Wayne would take him in like he did with Dick, and he would have a dad who was around and a big brother who loved him.

Mr. Wayne scooped up the fragments of vase in the handkerchief and set them gently on the table. Tim asked, “Aren’t you going to do something with that?”

“I’m leaving it for after the gala ends,” he explained. “Then Alfred can tell me if it can be repaired or should just be thrown away.”

Tim nodded. There was a moment of silence where Mr. Wayne just looked at him, some sort of emotion he couldn’t recognize in his gaze, before the man asked, “Would you like to find your parents?”

Tim hesitated. Truthfully, he didn’t. He’d much rather stay in this little hallway with Mr. Wayne, hold on to this calm happy feeling he didn’t know what to do with, than go and face his parents’ cold dismissal. But that wouldn’t be polite.

“Yes, sir,” he said finally. Mr. Wayne nodded.

“I’ll help you,” he said. Tim smiled up at him politely.

“Thank you, Mr. Wayne.”

“It’s no trouble.” The man’s large hands reached down to Tim’s collar, gently tugging it straight, then brushing over his hair to neaten it. Tim blushed faintly, but Mr. Wayne didn’t mention it.

“Alright,” he said after a moment, apparently satisfied with Tim’s appearance. “Ready to face the masses again?”

“I think so,” Tim decided. Mr. Wayne smiled at him before he rested one heavy hand on his shoulder and led him out of the hallway.

They found the Drakes standing near the doorway, apparently preparing to leave. Tim squashed down the disappointment that they hadn’t even noticed he was gone and waited patiently as Mr. Wayne announced, “Ah, Janet and Jack. I believe you’re missing someone?”

Janet turned, company smile firmly in place. “Bruce! What a pleasure- I feel I’ve barely seen you this evening!”

“One could hardly fail to see someone as radiant as you, Janet,” the man replied smoothly, smiling. It wasn’t a smile like the one he’d given Tim, just another fake. Two fake, flimsy smiles for a fake, flimsy interaction, Tim reflected.

“I believe Tim was looking for you,” he continued. Tim didn’t miss the brief look of confusion that flickered across his mother’s face before she smoothed it out into a smile and, by the way his grip tightened briefly on Tim’s shoulder, Mr. Wayne didn’t either.

“Oh, yes. Timothy, come here.” He padded over to her side as she said, “I do hope he wasn’t bothering you, Bruce.”

“Not at all,” he said. “Your son’s a delight.”

Jack frowned at Tim slightly before he said, “It’s getting late. I think we’d better be heading home- don’t want to keep Timothy up too late.”

“Of course,” Mr. Wayne agreed. Janet took Tim’s hand and led him away as Jack and Mr. Wayne said their goodbyes.

Tim couldn’t help but glance back over his shoulder as they walked down the steps. Mr. Wayne still stood in the doorway, flute of champagne he’d gotten from somewhere in his hand (already?) and watching as they left. When he noticed Tim watching, he smiled. A real smile.

All in all, he decided, not a bad evening. Not a bad evening at all.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments welcomed and appreciated!


End file.
